


License to Thrill

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Miscommunication, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: Are Jack's acting skills far better than Phryne gave him credit for?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For February's trope challenge. Much thanks is due to whopooh who has no idea that reading her trope fic inspired me to write this - well, I mean, she has now. ;)

Phryne slipped up soundlessly from the cells, where her client was enjoying City South’s finest hospitality, and paused just past the top of the stairs to stealthily observe a certain DI.

Jack had not been at the station when she had first arrived. Sometime between arguing with a new constable about having to sign the visitor’s log _(she practically worked there for God’s sake),_ and extracting her client’s alibi for the night in question _(spent at a club known for catering to unusual tastes – easy enough to verify when one knew the owner)_ , he must have returned.

In the months since her return to Melbourne, she and Jack had picked up where they had left off at the airfield, courting openly even as they worked in lock-step. _(Well, perhaps with Phryne just the teensiest step ahead.)_ Now that they were together, she was free to admire Jack Robinson as much as she pleased without consideration for how it might appear – not that she had ever shied away from it.

But this was different. Watching him without his knowledge felt dangerous and forbidden and just a little bit… wrong. It was intoxicating.

In the sphere of his own company, his movements were not designed to entice or tease her and their fluidity was captivating for all its artlessness. His expressions were not for her amusement but rather, little windows to the machinations of his mind and heart and gut. And when he talked aloud to himself, it was in an unpolished, gruff _sotto voce_ that ensnared her in its velvet-steel trap more tightly than Archie Jones’ practiced patter ever could.

He was perched on the corner of his desk _(her corner, as she had come to think of it)_ , facing away from her. But even from her hiding place just beyond his office’s second door, she could make out the satisfied twist of his mouth and the smug wriggle of his snub-tipped nose as he gazed down into his cupped hands in awe.

A feral grin stole across Phryne’s face, and she licked her eyetooth in a manner that suggested sharpening.

It had been a very wicked thing to do, slipping that boudoir photograph into his suit pocket. _(What she would have given to have seen his expression at the discovery!)_ But watching him indulge in the image while he was on duty was almost better. Jack’s brazenness and greed for pleasure was surprising her at every turn. Anticipation began to coil, pulling taught at the base of her spine, wound tighter by the swelling that ached so sweetly between her thighs.

Distracted as she was watching her lover _(and imagining striking the same pose for him in the flesh)_ , she hadn’t even noticed Sergeant Wilkins sidle into the room – his piggy eyes fixed possessively on what Jack was holding.

“That’s quite a piece you scored, Robinson.”

The unexpected voice of the nasally tenor startled her but Phryne took a calming breath and quickly found her equilibrium - determined for once, not to be the freight train he delighted in calling her. It was a risk they had identified early on, when they decided not to hide their relationship, and not one that Jack would allow to stand in their way _._ His solve and conviction rates were indisputable and his reputation, sterling _(Phryne swore the prosecutor practically salivated every time he read ‘Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’ on the court docket)_. Jack had sworn that if he was ever questioned, he would deal with it and so she had promised him the space to do just that.

Now that the time had come, she was not all that surprised to find herself coated with a warm flood of desire. Phryne rocked back on her heels and waited for Jack to school the prig _(she did so love when he exerted his authority)_. Wilkins wouldn’t manage an assignment beyond slopping out the cells for the next fortnight.

Jack stood, circling around to the front of his desk, to lean cock-sure against its hefty weight. He cleared his throat, the rasp of air catching on the textures of his mouth. After long minutes of sizing up the other man, Jack finally spoke.

“She’s a real beauty alright.”

_(That’s right, Jack! Give him hell— Wait! What?)_

Wilkins’ eyes searched the Inspector, his gaze finally finding the object of their mutual lust – intentionally placed on the desk by its owner to send a message.

Jack reached over nonchalantly and began to stroke it – the smooth rocking of his arm apparent to her, even from her vantage point. It was a tactical maneuver she recognised at once and felt her skin crawl. _(You can look, but you cannot touch.)_ It was a taunt. A dare. And it reeked of possession.

White hot flames licked at the sides of her face. _(So much for the noble Jack Robinson.)_ Had Phryne ever wagered on her immunity to blushing, she would have lost what remained of her not-insubstantial fortune.

“Dunno how you managed to get her past the Chief—”

“The Chief,” Jack interrupted, “Is perfectly aware of the potential entanglements. He believes the benefits far outweigh the risks.” His voice was as placid as Lakes Entrance, but his head tilted in that maddening way that anyone who knew him would read as a challenge.

“Hmph! Sure you can handle her?” the sergeant sneered, “You’re getting a bit up there in years. Maybe the reflexes ain’t what they used to be?”

“I think I know how to handle her better than you, Wilkins. I am the commanding officer in charge here, after all. That means I have the most experience of any man in this station." Jack’s mouth curled into a knowing smile. “And, there are distinct— _advantages_ to having her in my pocket.”

Pinpricks lit across her palms as her nails fisted into the balled-up flesh and she bit her tongue hard to keep her howl of betrayal buried firmly in her breast. The pain kept her feet firmly tethered to the dingy lino, hell bent on letting the scene play out to its bitter end _(to see him for the actor he really was)_. Phryne Fisher could abide pretty fools and clever dags, but she had long had her fill of charming scoundrels.

Sergeant Wilkins’ laugh snorted loudly through the station, turning Phryne’s stomach until she tasted bile. _(Was the entire Victoria Constabulary aware that Inspector Robinson’s partnership with her was an elaborate rouse?)_

Stripes gleaming on his starched uniform, Hugh Collins strode into Jack’s office. “Everything alright, Sir? I heard a ruckus,” he asked, concern written across the lines of his forehead. _(The entire Constabulary except Hugh, then. Bless him.)_

“Fine, Collins,” Jack tutted. “The sergeant, here, was just admiring my latest acquisition.” He gestured to his left, toward the desk.

Hugh’s eyes grew wide as saucers. He leaned forward, hand outstretched, and licked his lips as if tasting the words to ask for permission. _(Dot never need know of this.)_ Just as his fingertips got within inches of the desktop, Collins lost his nerve and pulled his hand back as if it were burned. The heat mounting in his high complexion completed the image as his two superior officers chortled at his naiveté.

Wilkins clapped his hands in derisive applause and wiped an errant tear from the corner of his eye. “What say you, Constable?” he finally asked the younger man. “I know you’re loyal to Robinson— But do you really think your boss has what it takes to squeeze that off?”

“Well—” Hugh began nervously, “Miss Fisher told my Dottie that Inspector Robinson holds the record for, ah—”

Wilkins’ eyebrow nearly leapt off his face in curiosity. “Yes, Collins? Go on.” 

“—Being able to perform under pressure.”

Phryne had to clap her hand over her mouth. _(She didn't recall sharing that particular detail with her companion - of course, that it didn't make it any less true.)_ The thought didn't make her feel any better.

“Did she? Well! Now I _am_ impressed,” Wilkins bowed his head playfully toward the Inspector.

Jack smirked in return. “Years of piano lessons. My fingers don’t tire easily,” he said, his shoulders giving an arch little shrug. _(You smug bastard! You’ll be lucky if I don’t break them all.)_ “The record is unofficial, of course. I believe Miss Fisher holds the current title.”

“I suppose it’s only fair then,” Wilkins huffed. “But Collins is my witness— I’ve got dibs! I’d be happy to take her off your hands when you get bored.”

“I don’t think that’s likely to happen any time soon,” Jack teased, lacing his arms across his chest in victory. “But I’ll take your offer under advisement.” He leaned his hip against the edge of his desk, stretching himself out like a tom cat. “Miss Fisher! See there, gents? Speak of the devil and the devil—”

!!! SMACK !!!

 

(to be continued...)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne confronts Jack, and everyone guesses the end.  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned to have this chapter up yesterday but Jack wanted to prolong the... _erm..._ conversation. Deepest apologies.  
>  (Picks up pretty much where Chapter 1 left off.)
> 
> As always, comments and concrit are welcome and encouraged.  
> _______________________________________________________  
>   
>   
> 

“—I’d be happy to take her off your hands when you get bored.” 

“—I’ll take your offer under advisement.” 

Phryne was accustomed to parrying the lewd propositions of self-entitled men, and so it wasn’t the sergeant’s lascivious bargain that finally broke Phryne of her hidden silence. The final straw came when the man she had believed to be her partner, in everything that mattered, thought he could broker her ownership. _(I warned you it was too good to be true, a small voice whispered.)_

In five long strides, she was in the room. Her skin was blanched so white, she seemed to glow and her eyes glittered with the roiling fury that she would not allow to escape in a flow of tears. 

“Miss Fisher! See, gents? Speak of the devil and the devil—” 

She wound her arm back the way that lovely American baseball player had once shown her would channel her momentum _(right before they had channeled it in more prurient ways)_ , and smacked Jack Robinson so hard, he would wear her handprint for days. 

For nearly a full minute, there was nothing but silence. All three men appeared to have been turned to stone by the furious goddess that stood before them. It was only when Jack reached up and, unbelievingly, dabbed at his cheek that she was reminded he was still flesh and blood. 

“Collins—” Jack growled, his eyes never leaving hers. 

When Hugh didn’t move, Jack barked again. “Both of you! Out. _Now._ ” 

“Come on, son,” Wilkins said softly, shaking off the spell like a winter chill. “No harm in knocking off a few minutes early. It’s been a slow night for crime.” He took the still-dazed constable by the elbow, leading him toward the door. “I’ll just lock up on our way out, Inspector.” Wilkins continued to speak in a voice suited to soothing a wailing child as he backed them steadily out of Jack’s office and, eventually, out of the station. 

Phryne found it largely reminiscent of a hostage negotiation. It was immensely satisfying. 

Jack didn’t speak again until he heard Wilkins throw the bolt on the door and they were left utterly alone. 

_“Faigh muin,_ Phryne!” 

“No,” she simpered through bared teeth, ignoring the thrum that his curse sent pulsing through her. “I don’t think I will, thank you. You’ll have to find your _advantages_ elsewhere. Goodbye, Jack.” 

Pivoting on her heel in a whirl of red wool and white silk, she set her teeth and managed one step before feeling his large hand circle around her bicep. 

“Phryne, what the hell is going on?” he asked, his voice oscillating with outrage. “You storm in here, assault me in front of my officers, and then think you can storm back out without so much as a reason?” 

She looked down her nose at where he was still gripping her arm, and he released her at once. “I’m not storming out, Inspector. I’m leaving. Mr. Butler will pack up your things and have them sent ‘round.” 

“You’re—” Jack blinked rapidly, as if doing so would encourage his brain to work faster. _(She was leaving? He must have misunderstood.)_ “This is—” 

“Over.” She smoothed down the sleeve of her scarlet coat. “Oh! And do be a dear and ask Hugh not to bandy about your name when he and Dot come by for dinner.” 

“Please,” Jack begged, feeling tongue-tied and dizzy. He took a step toward her and nearly fell over one of the visitor’s chairs – his legs had gone numb. Grappling for balance, he threw his weight into the seat and gripped the arms tightly. 

_(Everything had been going so well. Too well, a small voice reminded him. You should have never told her that you loved her.)_

“I don’t understand." His voice was barely a whisper. "Why?”

“You don’t have to keep up the charade, Jack,” Phryne spat, incensed at the way the crack in his voice tugged at her heart. She leaned down, tearing off her hat so she could look him straight in the eye. “I was outside your office door when you and Wilkins were talking. I heard everything!” 

“Wait! That’s what this is about?” He couldn’t stop the guffaw of relief from breaking over his lips. 

“Don’t you dare laugh, Jack Robinson,” she said dangerously. “Don’t you fucking dare.” 

“I’m sorry, Phryne. It’s just— I can explain.” 

“I’m not interested in your explanations, Jack.”  

She glared at him, and Jack’s eyes darted to his desk. _(It seemed a bit late to realise that he had left his weapon laying there, unguarded.)_

Phryne followed his gaze to the compact German pistol with its sleek black metal barrel and checkered brown grip. “What is _that_?” 

“It’s a Walther PPK—” 

“I know what it is!” she snapped, shuffling the gun and his paperwork over the red leather blotter in search of something else entirely. “I mean, what is it doing there? Where’s my photograph? I’d like it back.” 

“Your photo—?” Jack didn’t think it was possible to be more confused than he already was. He'd never even kept a picture of Rosie on his desk when they were married. But, then, Miss Fisher always had been intent on pushing his boundaries. _(Boundaries...Oh. Oh! That photograph.)_

Jack blushed so deeply, the mark she had made upon his face was nearly indiscernible from the rest of it. 

The curve of her body as she balanced on her sacrum, at the edge of her plush boudoir chair, had been burned into his mind's eye. Her knees were tucked up against her chest, her arms stretched before her and bound to the length of her shins with loops of silk scarf – the way a ballerina might lace up her pointe shoes – creating a long seam from the tips of her toes to the hilt of her hips that kept her modesty intact. And while her intimate secrets had remained hidden from the lens, the way her eyes smouldered at him from the paper _(hot and heavy and wanting)_ , had revealed _his_. He positively burned with the exposure. 

“I locked it in the vault.” 

“What a lot of rot! You were looking at it when that piece of excrement, Wilkins, walked in.” 

Despite his obvious fluster, his voice was firm. “I wasn’t.” 

“Alright then,” she replied. _(He wasn’t sure what it said about him that he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself looking down the business end of the PPK.)_ “Prove it.” 

With a nudge of the gun, she invited him to stand. He refused. 

“The key’s in my waistcoat pocket, Miss Fisher,” he said, surrendering his hands and angling his body so his coat fell open to her. “Prove it, yourself.” 

She removed the brass key with fingers so deft, he barely felt them as they fluttered over his wool suiting. As she whisked behind his desk to prise open the safe, he couldn't help but wonder if she had noticed how aroused he had become with the heady mix of her presence, the mere mention of that picture, and the threat of danger. 

“Jack—” She was holding the photograph in the hand that wasn’t still pointing his own pistol at him, confusion in her eyes. 

“I told you,” he reminded her gently. “I couldn’t take a chance that it could end up in the wrong hands. What if I lost it during a scuffle? Or someone tried to use it to blackmail one of us?” 

“But your conversation.” _(She wanted to believe him. Oh! How she wanted to… But then she remembered.)_ “All those things you said about— _her_. Since when do you refer to your weapon in the feminine?”  

He shrugged. “It’s a bit of good luck, I suppose. Like boats. Wilkins has a forty-five named, _Twila_.” The right corner of his lips began to twitch. 

“You’re not going to charm your way out of this, Jack. What about the Commissioner and having _her_ in your pocket?” She made her way back to the spot Jack had earlier occupied on the edge of the desk. 

“The Chief _did_ have to approve its acquisition. No police force in Australia is using this model. But I have a friend in the British service who’s been raving about it in his undercover operations. Its size makes it perfect for concealment. It fits quite neatly in my pocket. Phryne—” 

He reached out and gently removed the weapon from her hand. _(His heart warming at the sight of the safety still engaged.)_ “You should be happy. I won’t have to tuck it in the waistband of my trousers anymore.” 

She huffed a grudging laugh, and Jack took the opportunity to tug her into the chair across from him. They sat quietly for a few moments with their knees nearly touching. _(He had been talking about his gun. His. Gun. Not her. Never her. Jack would never.)_ It had been a long time since she had felt so foolish. Phryne had not expected the scars from her past to still be so raw. 

Finally, she spoke again, refusing to look anywhere but where her hands were clasped in her lap. “And all the boasting about setting records and piano lessons? You were talking about last year’s sharp-shooting competition, weren’t you?” 

The Adventuresses’ Club had sponsored a team in the tournament. Phryne had won every qualifying match and, eventually, the title. Jack had never been interested in glory. He had practised on his own - always rebuffing her offers of hosting him on her team - even after he'd met her, shot for shot, at the range. 

“Of course. What did you think—” 

He tried to remember what he had said, exactly, to Wilkins. And then imagined it as she had heard it. Only then did Jack finally feel the gravity of the situation. His gasp whistled past the edges of his teeth. 

“Oh, Christ. No— God, no, love. And, dammit, Phryne! Wrong hands or not—I couldn’t bear the thought of _anyone_ else seeing that photograph." He was stammering, now, he knew, trying to fit the vastness of what he felt into the crudeness of spoken words. "What we have, what we share is only for us. I would never presume—”

And the next thing he knew, she was kissing him. 

"We never— have— to work— a case— together, again," he said, every other word punctuated by the hot, desperate press of his mouth against hers. 

"But Jack," she countered, her voice thin with need. "It’s what we do best." 

He slowed their petting and cupped her face in his hands. "I don’t want to give you cause for doubt. If that's what you need—" 

"No. I made presumptions based on past history that were entirely unfair to you." She stroked down the lapel of his coat, her fingers lingering over his heart. _(If she couldn't say this, what hope did they have?)_ "This is all so new— and a bit too perfect if I'm to be honest. It's almost like part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop." 

"I think the good ship, _Perfect_ , has sailed," he teased, pulling her fingertips to his lips. "One less thing to worry about." 

"I’m sorry—" 

Jack waved her apology away with a shake of his head. "I just need to know— Are we alright?" 

Phryne let out a shaky breath and smiled in chagrin. "Yes." 

He smiled back – the tiniest pull at the corners of his mouth – before tucking a lock of hair behind her ear to mouth at the tender skin it revealed. She had once told him that being kissed in that spot was the most effective way to disarm her _(he hadn't asked how she had discovered that fact)_. He had no wish to render her defenceless, only to feel her pulse quicken beneath his tongue as her body melted into his arms. 

"And this?" he murmured into her skin, seeking permission for the liberty rather than presuming it was his to take. "Is this alright?" 

"Yes," she sighed, fisting her hand into his hair to feel the curls slip against her skin and keep him exactly where he was. Only Jack Robinson could unleash the sensations of soaring, wild and free, and surety, careful and tender, to duel exquisitely beneath her skin. 

"One thing I don’t understand," he panted, after painting his way down the column of her throat. "You know how I feel about your— teasing me, while I’m on duty." 

"Hmm?" The sound was dreamy and faraway. 

"What made you think that I would allow myself to indulge in that photograph while I was working?" 

Jack's office was hardly where she had expected to have this conversation when she had tucked the image away for him to discover. Far be it from her to object, with the number of fantasies that seemed to revolve around his desk. 

"I thought you might be approaching a crossroads. You’ve been so forward lately, Jack." Phryne shimmied out of her coat slid forward on her chair, biting her lip seductively. "And, I'll admit to a bit of wishful thinking on my part. The idea of driving your sense of propriety off the rails is very appealing." 

"Is it?" he asked gruffly, adam's apple bobbing madly against his throat. 

"Mmm," Phryne agreed, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. "Very. What did you think when you first saw it?" 

He tugged the photograph out of her fingertips, sweeping his eyes across her tempting celluloid form before tucking it safely back in his pocket. "That I couldn’t get home to you fast enough to replicate it." 

She was practically sitting in his lap when she reached forward to touch his face. "I'm here now." 

Jack flinched at the sensation. 

Phryne traced the outline that the force of her hand left upon his cheek. "I‘m so sorry," she said quietly, and he heard the regret, heavy in her breath. "Can you forgive me?" 

While some part of him might once have been appeased by her remorse, it did Jack no good to see her this way. It took him longer than it should have to decide how to both accept the apology she felt compelled to offer, and bring the smile back to her eyes. 

"Perhaps," he offered mysteriously. "If the apology is equal to the deed." 

She straightened up, intrigued by the honey tones of his voice but unsure of exactly what he was suggesting. "Do you have something suitable in mind?" 

"You've heard of the expression, _an eye for an eye_?" 

Phryne couldn't stop her body from stiffening. "Are you proposing that since I struck you, I should allow you to strike me in return?" 

"Absolutely not." He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her arms until he held both her hands in his. "Though, the idea of a sound spanking has crossed my mind once or twice." His grin dripped with lust. "But never as retribution." 

"Then, what?" she asked, pressing her chest against his to kiss him so their entwined hands wedged between their bellies. 

"You struck me with your hands," he said, urging them down past the edge of his waistcoat to rub against his hardened length. He growled as she liberated her thumb from his grip to swirl under the crown of his cock – obvious, even through the wool of his trousers. "So, I want you to apologize with your hands." 

There was a breathless moment, during which Jack wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far, and then her lips locked onto his once more. "I thought you didn't want me to tease you here?" 

"I'm not on duty." 

She moaned into his mouth as his greedy tongue darted along her hard palate.

"That seems more than fair," she agreed, fumbling open the buttons of his fly as her hands shook with unbridled desire to have him here in his _sanctum sanctorum_.  

"Get behind your desk, Jack." 

"No!" he shouted, louder than he had intended, and she drew back quickly, looking startled. "I mean— Ah—  Here. Here is fine." 

_(He never sat here.  It was bad enough when she planted herself on the corner of his desk – he could only imagine the distractions that would plague him if he allowed her to get him off in_ his _chair. At least, this way, he might have a fighting chance of maintaining his composure when he was on duty.)_  

Phryne gave him a knowing smile and pulled him out, tracing his plump head with a fingertip. "Any other requests? It is your apology, after all." 

"On your knees," he finally managed through gritted teeth, "And your blouse. Take it off." 

"I always knew you had it in you," she whispered huskily, edging the whorls of his ear with her tongue as her hand copied the motion down below. His gasp of breath was a reward unto its own. 

Folding her coat over several times, she placed it on the floor between his feet and kneeled on it. More than protecting her legs, it had the added benefit of bringing her to an opportunistic height. She lowered herself to the floor and made a show of removing the cream silk. 

_(And if the ties of the bow just so happened to swirl maddeningly across his oversensitized skin? Well, that wasn't her fault.)_

Tiny pearls of sweat beaded at his temples, traversing his clenching jaw when they finally broke free. And his hands gripped the rounds of the handles, refusing to touch himself even as his hips shifted restlessly, cock twitching madly in the air, questing for friction. 

It wasn't the first time she had pleasured him this way. But Jack had always let her set the tone, either happy just to be along for the ride or unwilling to assert his darker desires. Perhaps now, sat before her – with his tie knotted tight against his throat, still fully clothed but for his cock and balls proffered upon a salver of tarnished grey wool, and coming apart with need – he would find his voice. 

Curiosity burned through her as she watched him.  

"How?" she asked simply. 

Jack swallowed – hard. 

"Tell me." 

She trailed her nails up and down the length of his covered thighs, savouring the way the muscles contracted beneath her touch. When another long moment passed without answer, she walked her fingers up to his hips and drew featherlight patterns through his shock of chestnut curls – steadfastly avoiding his length of taught, silky skin. 

"Like this, Jack?" 

"Phryne—" he warned. 

"Mmm? Not quite?" she asked, nibbling at the side of his knee and relishing the sharp bite of wool at her lips. Sliding two slender fingers between him and his drawers, she stroked the dark path of his perineum, her other hand pinning him firmly in place. 

"I do want to be sure I don't misunderstand again, darling," Phryne said, raising her voice to be heard over his groan. 

"Perhaps you'd prefer—" When she relinquished his hip to tickle gently at the tender skin of his balls, Jack nearly levitated off the chair. 

"It's supposed to be an apology, not torture." He growled and pulled her up to bite her mouth. "Rough," he demanded, palming her breasts through the silk of her camisole and pinching her nipples between his knuckles. "And fast. The sooner I come, the sooner I can take you home and tie you up in that pretty little package." 

Keening at the lusty, thick promise in his voice, she pulsed her muscles to abate the relentless ache that pervaded her cunt. Her voice, when she spoke, was breathless. 

"I do believe our communication is improving." She got to her feet and lifted her skirt by the handfuls until it bunched at her hips. 

His eyebrow raised in question but her expression informed him quite plainly that she had no intention of disobeying his request. She slipped her fingers up the sodden leg of her knickers and explained.  

"You need to get wet, Jack." She held his eyes as she stroked herself, coating her hand down to the webbing between each finger. 

_(God, he could smell her – ripe and succulent – and it took every ounce of will not to simply throw her over his desk and bury his face between her thighs until the sun rose. But he had asked. He had asked and she had accepted. There would be time.)_

Phryne didn't think she had ever seen such a wicked smile pass across his face. It made her shiver where she stood, and she felt a fresh wave of desire slicken her palm. 

"Now, Phryne," he grunted, unable to take another second of her teasing – an exhalation of breath might send him over at this point. 

Jack let out a howl as she formed a scissor with her fingers to track and squeeze along the prominent veins of his cock. She palmed the head with her other hand, teasing under the ridge with agile fingertips, extracting the most delightful notes from his throat. 

Consumed by the feel of her, he couldn't care that she was no longer on her knees. She had straddled his right thigh to rock her clitoris against it and the sweet weight of her kept him from bucking out of the chair as he pressed into her touch. He could feel her wet heat seeping through the fabric of his suit and it only titillated him further. 

Then, suddenly, she altered her grip. One ruthless stroke... then, two... and he was gritting his teeth to prolong the unendurably exquisite sensation. The velvet gloves of her hands were – for all their feminine delicacy – deceptively strong. _(She had taken him at his word and was handling him with unwavering force)_

No one had touched him this way before Phryne _(Rosie had been a beautiful, if shy, lover and he had never wished to embarrass her by asking for such a thing, especially when it rather defeated the notion of a family)._ Chafing at how her hands seemed to know how to dismantle him better than his own did, when he'd had two decades' head start, he insinuated his fingers beneath her silken underthings just to hear her scream his name. 

For a moment, they stuttered, but quickly regained a vicious rhythm in which every pull of his fingers was answered by a twist of her wrist, every rasp of his callous was met in the bite of her nails, and every groan of pleasure was echoed by a mewl of need – until his hips went rigid, and the last thing he remembered was her muffled cry of release as she caught his come in the warm, wet heat of her mouth. 

Phryne was gingerly tucking him back into his pants when Jack floated back down to his body. He stroked her arm and cast unbearably fond eyes upon her. 

"After an apology like that, how could I not forgive you?" His mouth twisted into the lopsided smile that was only for her. 

"I'm nothing if not earnest, Jack," she grinned, reaching for her discarded blouse. 

"That was—" 

"Just the beginning, I hope." 

"The beginning?" he repeated, helping her fasten the long line of pearl buttons. 

"Well, this will hardly be the last misconception we'll have to work out—" 

"No." 

"No," she agreed. "But we've just proven that—when properly motivated—we can come to a mutually beneficial understanding." 

"Phryne," he said, his tone unexpectedly melancholy considering his cock had been in her mouth not ten minutes ago. "I was married for nearly seventeen years. Not every argument ends this way." 

She read the pain in his eyes, the guilt he still carried, and the fear that history would repeat itself - with or without the blessing of a vicar. 

"I know that, darling." Tugging him up to stand, Phryne kissed him lushly on the mouth, encouraging his arms around her waist. "But I'm not the woman you married." She cradled his jaw, rubbing her thumb against his lips - and waited for him to kiss it, as she knew he would – before settling it into the cleft of his chin. It had become a cherished gesture between them, and one that was entirely _theirs_. 

"And I expect you'll have to remember that, from time to time. Just as I'll have to remind myself that you're different from all the other men I've known—not because of some failing on your part," she sighed. "But because we each have our own fair share of ghosts prowling in the shadows. It's going to take us both being a bit more open and honest and—" 

Worry lines rippled across his forehead as he searched for the right word. "Vulnerable?" 

"Yes," she said softly, tracing the pattern of his tie with uncertain fingers. _(And it was that gesture more than anything else – a tiny, little tell that told him she was just as nervous as he – that buoyed his hope that they could do this.)_ "And we'll probably have a few false starts. It's not a particularly comfortable position for me to be in." 

"Funny," Jack said, his lips catching on a smirk, "I wouldn't have guessed that from the photograph." 

And then, Phryne laughed - a thousand shards, all glittering gold, that embedded themselves beneath his skin. 

"Think of all the fun we can have practising," she hummed, walking him backward til his arse hit the desk. "Me, being _vulnerable_ ," she whispered hotly into his neck as she devoured the salty-sweet skin. "And you, being _honest_." 

Her tongue had very nearly succeeded in diverting his attention from what her hand had come to seize from the desktop. 

"Speaking of being honest—" 

"Yes?" she asked innocently, the pitch of her voice easily two octaves higher than it had been. 

Retrieving the Walther PPK from the deep pocket of her skirt, he leveled his best Detective-Inspector glare at her. 

"I believe the unlawful appropriation of a policeman's weapon is grounds for charges, Miss Fisher." 

"Pssh! I'd hardly call it unlawful when you were begging—" 

He silenced her with a ferocious kiss – all teeth and tongue and far more desperation than finesse. _(He really did have to get her home. Now.)_

"If you're good—" he patted his chest pocket where the photograph seemed to be burning a hole through the fabric. "I'll let you try it out before I do at the gun range, tomorrow." 

_(She really did have to get him home. Now.)_

"I can be very, very good, Inspector," she promised. "For _a piece_ as beautiful as yours." 

"Don't forget—lethal." 

"Mmm," she agreed, licking her lips invitingly. "It's practically a license to thrill." 

 


End file.
